


The Agony and Joy of Defeat

by lovinthelads



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovinthelads/pseuds/lovinthelads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never really over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agony and Joy of Defeat

Mesut slumped down onto the pitch. Lost. How could they have lost? They dominated the match? They had everything going their way…

“Come on,” Lukas said as he leaned down to Mesut and pushed him upright. “The world is watching.”

Mesut didn’t care. He didn’t care about the world. He only cared he’d lost. They’d lost.

“We have to shake hands and play nice. Let’s find Ollie and Kos,” Lukas pleaded, reaching under Mesut’s arms to try to lift him up, but Mesut was a dead weight.

And then someone took his hands and he looked up to see Sami, eyes bright with regret. 

“No pouting,” Sami said as he and Lukas got Mesut to his feet. “We do not pout, we are German.”

Mesut gave a glare, but he was fighting a smile. They were proud, they were strong, they were German, was the speech Bastian gave to them in the dressing room. 

Sami gave him a hug and sent him toward Olivier who was headed toward them, a smile a wide as the Seine on his face.

Sami made his way around, congratulating and consoling, but ever keeping an eye on Mesut as he talked to his Arsenal teammates, let them cajole him into a smile as Oliver hugged him and said things Mesut needed to hear. Sami’s heart tugged a little, knowing that while he knew Mesut loved him, he wished he was still that person who saw Mesut every day. Every training. Every match. 

The Euros were over. The plane would leave in the morning bound for Germany, not Paris. Families would invade and Sami would lose track of Mesut again. Back to clubs. Back to texts and promises and fleeting national call ups. Was Russia in their future? Was this the end of the road? What if they were never together like this again.

And the tears began in earnest for Sami.

For losing to France was nothing more than the loss of his heart.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mesut said as he reappeared. “What is this?”

“Nothing,” Sami sniffed.

“Nothing,” Mesut teased as he lead the way to the blissful seclusion of the dressing room. “The final is Sunday.”

“Yeah. We’re not going,” Sami said. It was his turn to be sullen.

“I know. But no one expects us until Monday,” Mesut said with a wink.

Sami frowned and chased after Mesut who was already half way down the tunnel.

“What do you mean?”

“Ollie and I had a bet. Whoever lost the match, got a weekend in Ibiza.”

Sami grinned. “And who are you taking to Ibiza?”

“I wonder,” Mesut said as he ran for the dressing room.

Sami let out a laugh as he chased after. 

It was never over between them. 

And it never would be.


End file.
